


this dream isn't feeling sweet

by RaeOfFrickingSunshine



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: F/M, and really ooc characters, honestly this is just carnivorous sea horses, horses and the sea oh my, scorpio races!au, set on a unidentified island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine
Summary: The Scorpio Races take place on the first day of November. The start line is a rope on the ground one end of the beach, mirroring the jagged cliff. The finish line is drawn at the other end, right before the cliff mockingly referred to as Winner’s Cove. It’s a mile and a half of straight sand. The goal is to stay on the shore, stay onboard, and stay alive.There has not been a single race without a casualty.There has not been a single race with a female jockey.There has not been a single race in four years not won by JJ Maybank and hiscapall uisceCoel.the scorpio race au
Relationships: JJ & Kiara (Outer Banks), JJ/Kiara (Outer Banks)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 38
Collections: Jiara July Jubilee





	this dream isn't feeling sweet

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! 
> 
> this is my contribution to jiara july jubilee for the au day prompt. i adore the scorpio races book (by maggie stiefvater) and obviously jiara, and this was the result.
> 
> it's extremely niche, extremely not obx, and the characters are likely to be beyond recognition. i have used a lot of artistic licence and interpretation of both the show and the book. in the book there's not much by way of modern technology and there are carnivorous sea horses. 
> 
> as always, i thrive on validation. this turned into a monster and is going to be in two parts when i get around to doing the second bit. i'm in the middle of a house move, so this is un-edited and not even proofread (honestly i spelled stare as stair at one point so please, lower your expectations)
> 
> there's canon-typical violence and lots of horses. the title is from ribs by lorde, which is a perpetual tune. enjoy!!

*

It happens every Autumn. Waves crash upon the now grey sands of Kildare Island – white foam dancing upon the crests. Then there are the _capaill uisce_ – the sea horses. They have the sea in their blood and anger on their brain. They emerge from the sea, hooves barely indenting the sand. Toss their manes and snap razor-sharp teeth at each other.

The islanders wait in silence with nets and chains made of iron. They sit on the cliffs, their breaths held tightly. Survey the horses that trot upon the moonlit shores, muscles rippling beneath their coats. They are the colours of the beach pebbles. Dun, palomino, black, grey and piebald.

You do not turn your back on a _capall uisce_. They smell of the sea and of rot. Have to be contained in stables reinforced with iron. They are the horses that are now the predators. Have taken all the fear of a flight animal and exchanged it for hatred and wildness and carnivorous intent.

The Scorpio Races take place on the first day of November. The start line is a rope on the ground one end of the beach, mirroring the jagged cliff. The finish line is drawn at the other end, right before the cliff mockingly referred to as Winner’s Cove. It’s a mile and a half of straight sand. The goal is to stay on the shore, stay onboard, and stay alive.

There’s a pretty penny for a _capall uisce_. They are dragged from the beaches, one to each four men. A chainmail of iron across their flanks, chains around their necks. They’re wrestled into barns with little light. Stables with buckets of sea water and blood at the side. The last man out backs away quickly, swinging the chain in one outstretched arm. The _capaill uisce_ flail and lash – teeth dig into flesh, hooves pound onto chests.

There has not been a single race without a casualty.

There has not been a single race with a female jockey.

There has not been a single race in four years not won by JJ Maybank and his _capall uisce_ Coel. His first race was when he was thirteen. He won when he was fourteen. It was the year his father almost died, pulled from his horse by another. JJ can still see the blood red sea foam. His father, motionless, slashed and mauled and dragged from the sea by two fisherman who were used to this by now.

JJ knows precisely where Luke Maybank went wrong. He saw the _capaill uisce_ as something to be conquered. He saw them as a foe.

JJ Maybank had turned his steed free that year. Returned the winning mare to the sea. Then he’d taken the reins of the rust red stallion who still had his father’s blood staining his lips and led him home. He remembers thinking it was a shame his father had lived to tell the tale.

*

The _capaill uisce_ have all been caught and stabled. There are rumours flying around the isle of Kildare regarding the best candidates for the race. Ward’s men have captured five. They’re stabled in a barn away from the racehorses – the thoroughbreds are always nervous around the sea horses. Their nostrils flare pink and they skitter away, whites of their eyes showing.

There’s a blackboard high in The Wreck which lists the riders who have nominated themselves. The columns for their chosen mounts and the odds of their win remain blank. They’re locked into chalk six weeks before the race takes place. The month before the six-week lock in is full of gentleman’s agreements and snatched conversations. Of dragging men to an alleyway to talk, not to be overheard.

Kiara has seen this all before. Every year, when the prize money and the betting pool and the danger entice all the men to emerge. Suntanned and not quite yet sea weary.

There’s two years between Kiara and the eldest of her brothers. It used to be her and Seb, always. Running into trouble and childish squabbles head first. Then their father left for a fishing trip and never returned, meaning Seb had to grow up real quick and somehow she got left behind. Seb had been close enough to seventeen that no one minded. He was a reliable worker on the boats, the salt forming a second skin. _Would be a shame to lose him,_ was the consensus, as the town considered their fate. _They’re not bad kids._

It was a fit of compassion that meant their father never put them up for adoption on the mainland. Even when their mother took her last breath precisely as Theo took his first. Then, when he never came home, he heft three kids in a shack on a cliff with a horse in the scrubbed paddock and lean to shelter.

There was eight years separating the three – Seb at nineteen, his hands worn from the years of hauling lobster pots and fishing nets from the sea. His eyes are already wrinkled at the corners from squinting into the salt spray. At eleven, Theo picked oysters and mussels and dragged the haul to market on the back of the two wheeled trap Minnow towed. Helped shuck barnacles from the underside of boats, knife blunting on their sharp edges. Brought everything he earnt home because he’d learnt the value of money much too young – learnt that the bread Kiara baked every morning required flour; that the porridge required oats. Salt and seaweed and fish were an abundance, but everything else had a price.

The Carrera kids have long forgotten a mother’s touch. It’s left them a little ragged, a little wild. The closest they get is Kiara smoothing Seb’s wild curls, or rapping a spoon across Theo’s knuckles as he reaches for one of the quick to snap cookies she makes. They’re sweetened with figs from the gnarled tree in the paddock that produces an abundance every summer, despite all natural processes deeming it an unnecessary effort.

Minnow was so named because she ducked and dove like her namesake. The buckskin mare is short, stout, with a coat the colour of sun kissed sand that turned shaggy in the winter, as customary of all Island horses. She often looked in disarray – her forelock caught behind her ear; her mane splayed across her thickset neck. Her expression was usually one of vague disgust. She eats better than the siblings. Coarse golden hay and the second cheapest oats – the cheapest make her cough from the dust.

Kiara’s boots hit mud, then sand, then mud again as she crosses from the door to the paddock. Minnow peers around the corner of her open fronted shelter, snorts once when she sees Kiara approaching. Deigns to emerge expectantly, eyes on the bucket in her owner’s hand. Kiara runs a hand down her neck, claps a hand to her shoulder. The mare swings her head to look at her. Snorts and returns to the grain.

Theo runs out from the house, one shoe on and one shoe off. “Heyward says the _capaill_ got three fillies over at Ward’s,” he babbles. He looks more like their mother than any of them. Pointed chin and quick, dark eyes. “In the outer fields – they couldn’t get to them before the storm.”

The storms drive the sea horses from the tumultuous sea onto land. Sends them into sheep flocks and into livestock. They jump fences and drag their spoils back to the cliffs. Horses are not first on their list, but it depends on their trajectory and their hunger.

“Three?”

“Three,” Theo confirms solemnly. “One was real expensive, too.”

“I’m taking the truck!” yells Seb as he emerges from the low slung stone house, hair all flat on one side, a hunk of bread in his hands. “Don’t wait up! Theo – put some shoes on. _Both_ of them.”

Kiara and Theo watch him go, mirroring each other. The truck splutters in protest as it backs up, coughing black smoke. Theo says, “he’s always going and never coming.”

Now’s not the time to address that particular quandary. Instead Kiara says, “you’ll have to take Minnow and the cart.” The mare heaves a sigh into her bucket of grain, as though understanding the words.

Kiara helps him load the trap with the oysters they’ve kept submerged in seawater at the back door. With blankets she’s knitted and crocheted. The tourist season is maintained until the Scorpio Race has concluded. They’re here to watch the training – to watch the capturing of the horses from the sea.

“You not coming?” Theo queries, as Kiara backs Minnow between the cart’s shafts and double checks her harnessing. The mare rests a hind leg and flicks her ears, looking a lot like a mule.

“I’ve got some business,” she tells him. “Remember the flour. We’re getting low.”

“Flour. Got it.”

“And tell Agatha to stop sending us bread.”

“I like bread.”

“Everyone likes bread, Theo. Not everyone likes pity. Me included.”

“Anything else?”

“Don’t forget the money from Penny’s – and ask her to write down how many she’s sold. You always forget.”

“Okay, okay.”

“You’re allowed ten sweets, if we’ve sold more then four.”

Theo’s face lights up at the possibility of the usual elicit sugar. With a cluck of his tongue and an equine’s derisive snort, the pair clatter out over the cobbled yard and onto the pitted road towards town.

Once they’re safely out of view, Kiara takes their rusted blue bike and cycles to the Ward estate. Tannyhill sits on the highest point of the Island. The gallops curve around the back of the imposing manor house so Ward Cameron can keep constant surveillance over his kingdom. The air smells of hay, straw and manure. Horses kick doors and whicker as she wheels her bike past. Distantly, she can hear the shriek and calls of the recently caught _capaill uisce._ There’s a barn set back from the rest. Metal lined and dimly lit.

Kiara comes across John B first. He and his dad have a small string of horses themselves, but mostly help the Wards. He’s forking muck into a barrow, glancing almost longingly towards the fortified barn. Another shriek fills the air. A horse responds – a shrill whinny.

“Kiara!” he greets, stands up straighter. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I could do with a break from this racket.” Nearby, a horse or a _capaill uisce_ thrashes loudly against some wood. Their eyes are drawn towards the commotion. “Won’t be long before we can’t use this block at all,” John B continues. “We’ve moved all the broodmares two blocks away so they don’t stress.”

“I heard about the three fillies,” Kiara props her bike against her hip. Steadies the handlebars with her hand. “Shame.”

John B sighs briefly. “One was a winner. A definite shame.” There’s a solemn moment before he recovers, brightens. “What brings you here, anyway?”

“I need a _capaill uisce_. I heard Ward has five. By my calculations, he’ll be looking to sell one round about now. The smallest.”

“Seb hasn’t said anything about entering this year – I thought after your dad, he was dead set against it.”

There was no confirmation that their father had been killed by the _capaill uisce._ But Kildare is run by rumours. It’s a logical enough assumption, Kiara does agree, but it’s unsubstantiated.

“He’s not entering it.” There’s a beat of silence and John B’s still looking at her, a frown on his face.

“Theo’s too young-”

“I’m going to enter.”

John B laughs brightly. It’s a sound similar to the wind chimes some of the Islanders hang out in Autumn. Covered with amulets and iron, said to deter the _capaill._ His laughter fades when she doesn’t join it. “Wait, are you serious?”

Kiara stares resolutely back. John B shakes his head, locks of hair falling from behind his ears. “Nuh-uh. Nope. Not gonna happen. Seb would never forgive me. Don’t even think about it, Kie. Besides, girls don’t enter the Races.”

“Women,” she corrects offhandedly. “And that’s not actually a rule. I’ve checked.”

“It’s kind of unwritten.”

“Well, if it’s unwritten…”

John B permits a small smile. “There isn’t a single person on this island who’s going to sell you a _capall_. And for good reason. They’re not a plaything.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Kiara’s hand clenches around the handle of the bike.

John B tilts his head to one side in apology. “Still. Not gonna happen. Especially not from Ward Cameron. He’d rather turn them back to the sea.”

Kiara ignores him anyway and wheels her bike right across the yard and up the hill to the front door of the imposing house. She’s let in by the housekeeper who flicks an eye over her mud crusted boots, her worn sweatshirt. It’s Seb’s and covers her hands, so she has to keep pushing it up to her elbows.

Ward Cameron descends down the staircase slowly, purposefully. Comes into the room that Kiara assumes would once have been referred to as a parlour.

He laughs when she asks whether any of the _capaill_ are for sale. Laughs harder when she suggests it may not be for her brother. Then he dismisses her with a flick of his wrist and a tired sigh and Kiara grinds her teeth as she leaves, stomping down the front steps.

John B’s still in the yard. This time he has a leadrope in his hand; the other end attached to the halter of a mare. He glances over, smiles at her. “Any luck?”

Kiara glares, hard. Throws a leg over her bike.

Nearby, JJ Maybank has emerged from the gloom of a stable. He squints into the sun which is struggling from between the clouds. “Good,” he says dismissively. “The Race is no place for you.”

Pebbles fly from her tyres as she rides, scattering onto the yard behind her. She leans over the handlebars and soars her way home.

*

Tourists go crazy for chunky knit blankets. The proper home spun and home dyed knit blankets. Kiara gets the yarn from the island’s sheep; it’s teased thinner and thinner, until it’s whisper soft. Her mother used to use these needles. Used to sit in this chair, beneath the window, her needles clacking together.

Kiara only has the faintest memories, or Seb’s memories. The photographs that litter the mantlepiece and sideboard. The house is empty when she returns; the paddock gate still swinging wide. Kiara takes stock of everything in their pantry. There’s a couple of tins of beans, some old potatoes which she could cut the sprouts off.

Her stomach protests but she fixes herself a pot of tea and fetches her yarn and needles.

Theo comes back with a clatter of hooves and a loud, “woooah now Minnow!” Kiara’s on her feet and at the backdoor as he’s jumping down, stepping to Minnow’s head. Kiara helps with the unshackling – balances the trap easily so she can lead Minnow free. The mare shakes once she’s dislodged, the harness jangling, the collar heavy around her neck.

“I think she needs a run,” Theo appraises. The truck’s back on the driveway now, abandoned. The driver’s nowhere to be seen. “She’s got a tickle in her toes.”

Minnow circles Kiara almost impatiently, her tail swishing. It takes a few minutes to strip off the tack and leave it in a pile on the floor. Seb would shout if he saw, but Seb hasn’t seen anything for months.

The truck’s engine rumbles to life the same moment Kiara uses the dry-stone wall to climb aboard the mare. In just a halter and rope, Minnow recognises the game instantly. Her muscles are tense under her skin, ears flickering as the truck starts to back out the drive.

Theo starts by the gate and Kiara and Minnow start in the field. Then – they race. Minnow with a thunder of iron clad hooves on compact, sandy soil – the truck backfires once, twice, it’s gears grinding as Theo picks up speed. He’s a small form, behind the wheel, throwing his weight into the steering.

They fade from view – Minnow and Kiara can take a straighter pathway across the fields to the cliff. They disturb a rabbit who freezes then bounds out the way. Jump straight into a field full of sheep who scatter, bleating plaintively. Minnow plunges through them undeterred, kicking up clods of mud and grass as she sprints. Her hooves stretch out in front – reaching, pressing forwards. They rise and fall for each wall or fence – miss the landing of one and Minnow stumbles, her head diving forwards. Kiara clings to her mane, presses her knees to the groove just behind her shoulder blade. Waits for her to right, shake her mane, and gallop onwards.

The truck’s idling on the clifftop when she gets there. Theo’s standing on the roof, hand over his eyes.

“You’re getting old and slow,” he chides her. Jumps down to stroke Minnow’s face. Kiara allows it for a moment before walking the mare in circles to cool down, her side’s heaving, her neck damp with sweat.

There’s a commotion on the beach, something loud and frenzied. Kiara slides down from Minnow and peers down to see six men on the sand, iron in their hands and a thrashing, straining _capaille_ between them. It’s nearing twilight, which comes increasingly early in the Autumn.

“I’m going to race,” she tells Theo, one hand on Minnow’s neck. The mare snuffles at the sea singed coarse grass of the headland.

“You need a horse,” Theo reminds her. Then, pensively and with the optimism of youth, “maybe we can catch one.”

They watch as the men struggle to hold one down – as it snakes its head from side to side and someone runs forwards with chainmail made of iron to drape over its quarters.

It takes six of them to catch one horse. Maybe less, if you really know what you’re doing. Before now, Kiara’s seen John B, Pope Heyward and JJ Maybank all wrestle one from the surf with minimal injuries.

“Seb would never help us,” Kiara sighs. “And I kind of like you enough to want you alive.”

Theo beams at that. “Race you back?”

She probably shouldn’t. But she’s on Minnow’s back with one smooth vault, has pulled the mare’s head up and kicked her heels into her sides before Theo’s even behind the wheel again. She hears him cry, “cheat!” but they’re over the first stonewall, and then over some barbed wire, and they get home before Theo spins into the yard on two wheels. Kiara’s walking Minnow in large circles around the paddock; rope reins loose in her hands.

She dumps a bucket of water over the mare’s back to wash away the sweat, then throws on an old woollen horse blanket with her father’s initials stitched diligently into the corner. It’s beans for tea, divided neatly into three portions, with bread for dipping. Seb doesn’t show so Kiara scrapes the remains from the pot onto her and Theo’s plates, scowling as she does so.

*

JJ Maybank is aware that there should be a life in which you do not know your father’s curled fist intimately, or in which you do not watch his every move and stay out of striking range.

It is not this life.

Luke is hindered by his leg and shattered hip which never set right. He is shirtless often and JJ knows the marks across his neck and shoulders where he’d been picked up and thrown into the shallows as though he were a young pup being scruffed.

That stallion is still in the Ward’s stables. JJ will ride him again in the Races. Most likely win. He will keep one fiftieth of the winning; Ward will take the rest. Then he’ll get home and press the coins into his father’s hand and never see them either.

Coel doesn’t whicker like the mares may do when they see JJ. He turns his head quickly, curved ears flicked towards him. He stands at the back of his stall with his muzzle pressed to the vent, breathing in the sea air. JJ only trains him at night, when all the other horses are safely stalled away.

The five newly caught _capaill_ throw themselves against the brick and mortar walls and iron barred doors, teeth bared. They scream and roar, hooves lashing.

It takes half an hour to saddle Coel – JJ can never turn his back on him. Steps backwards to retrieve the saddle, the bridle. Is methodical in his movements. Always the near fore tendon boot, then the other. Coel watches, shifts. He’s been in captivity for four years. Hasn’t felt the sea stir his coat in as long. If a _capaill_ feels the sea beneath their feet, you’ve lost them.

He spits into his palm and presses Coel back against the wall with a hand to his shoulder. The stallion shifts from one foreleg to the other, head high, nostrils flared.

He runs like he always does – like he’s trying to return to the sea. JJ foregoes the traditional iron shanked bit for a hackamore, pressing down on the stallion’s nose like a bear trap. His fingers are grooved and worn from holding the reins, his legs still against the stallion’s sides. JJ rides him up the gallops, then canters him steadily back down. 

It’s the odd twilight where everything stills. The world hold’s it’s breath, ready to gust out an exhale. Send the islanders spinning.

Ward Cameron is waiting at the bottom of the gallops, near the warm up loop. JJ presses his knees into Coel’s side to keep him straight. It doesn’t work. He crabs sideways, legs crossing, head tossing. It’s a fine balance between restraint and revolt; JJ keeps himself still in the saddle.

“You need to teach Rafe,” Ward says, stepping backwards as Coel comes closer. He has an iron chain in his hand, held nonchalantly, but JJ sees him raising it.

“He can’t be taught,” JJ points out. He has to spin Coel in a circle, balance himself as the stallion wrenches his head from left to right and then down.

“We have five, this year. There must be one as fast as Coel.”

It’s not the speed that is the issue. It’s the rideability. It’s the rider’s ability. Rafe Cameron is blunt jaws and blunter hands – holding them back, pushing them too hard. He outgrew the racehorses aged fourteen and has been bitter ever since.

“The all bay mare’s as fast as Coel, but three times as mean,” JJ assesses. “Sooner take you out to sea than over the finish line.”

“Can you straighten her out in four weeks?”

In four weeks’ time, only the designated jockeys are permitted to train their mounts.

“Four months, maybe. She has the sea in her brain. Barry may have her from you. He likes them vicious.”

Coel plunges and Ward flinches, stepping smartly backwards. “Go,” he says. “See about that mare. Maybe the piebald, instead.”

The piebald has one sea blue eye and a low, guttural raw. Can be kept steady with knees and elbows but plunges all along the gallops. He’s slammed JJ’s knees against the rails so many times he’s more bruise than skin from mid-thigh downwards.

He can feel Ward’s eyes on his back, all the way up the gallops. Coel can sense the distraction and snatches at the reins, skims along the railings. JJ grits his teeth and holds firm, lower leg a sharp angle to his hips. It keeps him grounded in the saddle, keeps him anchored. The last place he wants to be is at Coel’s feet.

It takes twenty minutes to wash the sea horse down with saltwater. His nostrils flare at the familiar smell; he’s tense, barely still as JJ works quickly but quietly. The bay mare in the stall over unsettles him by lashing out at the partition, hoof clanging against the iron reinforcements. She screams, screeches, the noise deafening, deadening the rest of the world.

Coel’s teeth miss his forearm by half an inch, maybe less. JJ snatches himself out of the way, stands still as the stallion recalibrates and decides whether to go on the offensive.

He doesn’t; but Luke does. Slams JJ right against the wall in a move he should have seen coming but somehow didn’t. Somehow still caught up in the Races and the _capaill_ and the fact that it’ll soon be him, Coel and the sea.

JJ spits blood into the cracked porcelain sink and pulls up his lip to examine the damage. His teeth all seem in line; his lip barely split. It means he’ll have to be careful around Coel in the morning, the scent of blood fresh on his skin. It’s that which bothers him most. Not the disgust in his father’s eye. Not the violence of the action. Just the inconvenience.

*

A week before the cessation of the sign up date, Kiara takes Minnow and the cart to town and enters The Wreck.

It’s midday on market day so the bar is full with drinkers. Agatha is behind the bar, slamming pints and snatching notes from boozers. The chalkboard with the riders and their mounts is above the bar for all to see.

Kiara places her entry fee on the sticky bar top and says, “one entry, please.”

Agatha looks from where she’s pulling a pint. “I thought your brother had a vendetta against those damn sea horses.” Kiara keeps staring, one hand perched atop her entry fee. Agatha clucks her tongue, swaps pint for money. “Theo is much too young. It’s a fools errand, that race.” Kiara keeps staring. Agatha stops, her hand in the cash drawer. “Kiara.”

“It’s not in the rule book that women are not permitted to enter. I’ve checked.”

The cash drawer slams shut and Agatha looks at her hard. Her greying hair curls into her face – she blows it out of her eyes with an impatient breath. “Well, in that case,” she smirks or grimaces a little. Takes the entry fee from the counter top, counting each coin and note carefully. “Are you sure about this, girl? There ain’t no going back, once your name’s on that board. You need a _capaill_ and you need to stand on that start line on the first of November with every other fucker who’s out for blood and victory. And that’s just them men. I won’t lecture you on the _capaill_.”

Kiara doesn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.”

“I’ll be checking the rule book tonight, and then writing you up tomorrow morning.” She clucks her tongue again, whisking the entry fee away and spinning back to place a pint glass under a tap. “You better be sure this will be worth it, girly. That’s your winter food allowance you’ve just given away. And it won’t be just you going without.”

Theo’s at the door, peering through the glass, his hair haloed darkly around his head.

Kiara thinks she sees a smile on Agatha’s lips as she turns away. Something small, unbidden.

*

Ward Cameron loans JJ the entry fee, and reclaims it from his winnings. JJ takes a Jeep into town and parks it haphazardly outside The Wreck. Enters just five minutes after they open.

Agatha’s behind the bar on a stepladder, paintbrush in hand. Is finishing the flourish on the final A in Kiara Carrera’s name on the chalkboard.

“Well, fuck,” he says in consideration. Slides over the crisp notes provided to him that morning by Ward. Agatha takes them; doesn’t bother checking. Picks up her paintbrush and paint pot once more.

“Nothing in the rules says she can’t,” Agatha says to the chalkboard.

“Doesn’t make it right,” says Big John from JJ’s left.

“One week until lock-in,” Agatha says. “She still has to find a horse before then.”

“No one will sell to her,” JJ predicts. Nods as Agatha stomps back down her ladder and presses a token into his palm. There’s still the same spark in his chest, the same anticipation.

The door slams against the wall and rebounds back against the newcomer. Seb Carrera has a scowl on his lips which deepens as he considers the chalkboard. He claps a hand against JJ’s shoulder as a mild greeting, eyes scanning the lettering.

He groans when he sees his sister’s name.

“She did tell you she would,” JJ points out.

“I didn’t believe her,” Seb protests. “Who would? No girl ever has.”

It seems redundant to protest that Kiara Carrera was not just any girl. Seems like it may earn him a slap or something more. Instead he says, “she knows her own mind.”

“You’re telling me,” Seb glowers. “Aggie – how much for you to wipe her from the board?”

“Them’s the rules, Sebastian,” Agatha doesn’t even look over. “Her decision.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s the right decision.”

“Who are you to decide?”

Seb’s lips thin as he presses them together. He shakes his head abruptly. “It’s a ploy. A scheme.”

JJ has stalls to clean and Coel to tend to. “She needs a horse. And there ain’t anyone who will give her that.”

Seb brightens at the idea. “JJ, you genius.” Without another word, he strides from the room, the door banging into the frame behind her.

Agatha looks straight at him. “She’s going to race. She’ll find a way.”

JJ tips a shoulder. “Maybe so. I’m still going to win.”

Agatha grins quickly, sharply.

*

Two days before lock-in, Kiara has exhausted her options.

Barry laughed her away. Big John told her gently that the sands are no place for a woman. Even Heyward rebuffed her, a hand ghosting her shoulder. Told her not to take the risk, even though his own son will.

Ward’s housekeeper turns her away at the door. Rafe Cameron is astride a dapple-grey mare and smirks widely as she leads Minnow back across the yard, her loose shoe obvious on the roughened concrete. JJ Maybank emerges from the offset barn, a bucket of what she assumes is seawater in one hand.

“Kiara Carrera,” he greets. “Your brother is not impressed with you.”

“He never is.” She vaults onto Minnow’s bare back from a standing start, fuelled by rage. “He will be when I race.”

JJ’s face transforms when he smiles. Shifts from watchful to youthful; dimples in his cheeks, eyebrows lifting rather than drawing down over his dark eyes.

“You’re sure of yourself.”

“Someone has to be.”

There’s a roar from the barn and Minnow skitters at it. It culminates in one lonely keen, like a siren’s call. Kiara says _shh_ to her mare, reins her to a standstill. She snorts, whole body moving with it.

“They’re on edge, this year,” JJ tells her.

“They’re on edge every year. I hear he’s got five. Six, with Coel. If you let any loose, herd them in my direction.”

JJ smiles again and Kiara blinks at the sight. It’s like a sunbeam through a storm cloud; bright, illuminating.

“I think Seb would say otherwise.”

“Men don’t always know what’s best.”

“That’s true. Mom knew she should get off this island, and off she went.”

Kiara looks at him. There’s another noise. They both look at it, then at Minnow as her courage gives in and she ducks away. Kiara moves with her, hand in her mane.

“I’ll let you get on.”

JJ swaps the bucket to the other hand. “Have fun trying to find a _capall_.”

It’s pensive rather than barbed, but she still scowls and clucks her tongue to her mare. Minnow springs gratefully into a trot, hooves sure on the uneven surface as Kiara navigates her way across the wheelbarrow and broom littered yard and out onto the road.

*

“Lock in’s tomorrow.”

Ward Cameron stands at the entrance to the barn; not the entrance to the stall. JJ doesn’t turn to acknowledge him. Keeps his eyes pinned directly on Coel’s face, because it’s the only way Coel respects his presence.

He’s cleaning the stall methodically. Brushing dung and soiled straw straight out the door, to minimise his exposure time. He spits into his palm and presses it to the stallion’s shoulder. He shudders, flinches, skin moving over muscle.

“Rafe wants the all bay mare,” Ward continues.

The all bay mare is currently battering the back wall of her stall. There’s not been a time when JJ hasn’t seen the whites of her eyes. One groom has already been gouged by her – straight to the forearm, blood and sinew revealed.

Ward Cameron doesn’t pay damages so that groom’s back at work, bandaged and drugged to the eyeballs.

“The piebald will get him over the finish.”

“In what position?”

JJ has gambled with his own life enough times to realise that it does hold some worth. Rich kids and their rich games and their rich egos. He keeps his palm to Coel’s shoulder, keeps him pinned there.

“Maybe he should take Coel,” Ward steps closer. “He’s tame.”

JJ releases his hand, steps back. Coel flies at the bars, lashes out with his front hooves. The iron bars rattle as a ton of animal hits them – as teeth flash, connect. Coel’s guttural with it. Feral.

“Maybe not,” Ward decides as he steps backwards again. “I would like the winnings, after all. It’s good for business.”

The next morning JJ strides into The Wreck. Tells Agatha to put Coel next to his name. Agatha looks blankly at him, then gestures towards the board, where the name is printed pre-emptively.

“Ward suggested him for Rafe,” he explains shortly.

Agatha hums. “He likes to win too much. Everyone knows Rafe’s no winner.”

There’s a small crowd in The Wreck, a low thrum through those gathered. The door opens frequently enough that he bares it no mind. But this time he does, because Kiara Carrera is stepping up to the bar with a piece of paper in her hand.

“You got your horse?” Agatha asks her. The woman’s tone is gentler, softer, verging on matronly. The whole Island adopted the Carrera kids as soon as it became apparent Mike was not being relinquished by the sea.

Kiara hands over the piece of paper. Agatha looks at it for a short moment before unfolding it. She reads the name three times, then laughs.

“Girl,” she says, and it’s half a reprimand, half disbelief.

“Ain’t no rule saying otherwise.” Kiara’s chin juts when she gets stubborn – JJ recognises the motion from school. Back when he needed an education outside of horses and the Island and the sea.

“I think it’s another one of those unwritten ones.”

Kiara and Agatha stare at each other. Then Agatha ascends the ladder, paintbrush in hand.

Right next to the name Kiara Carrera, Agatha prints MINNOW.

JJ laughs and Kiara’s gaze snaps to him, as though noticing him for the first time. “Now that’s bold.”

“Not against the rules, though.”

“No. Wouldn’t want that.”

Kiara is jet black hair, a semi-permanent frown and a soft side reserved strictly for her brother Theo. The briny air means her hair dries haphazardly and is thrown into bandana’s on top of her head. She often has dough under her nails, or a knitting needle pinning back her waves.

She wears denim cut offs and her brother’s sweatshirts and she’s the only girl JJ has ever truly noticed and respected. Mostly because she doesn’t care if he respects her or not. She only cares about what she wants.

He thinks she currently wants money and her brother to stay on the Island. Neither can be found in the Scorpio Race.

He also knows she’s considered this. Balanced the facts and the reasons and come to the same conclusion. Which is why he says, “most people start training on the beach from tomorrow,” offhandedly.

Irritation crosses her face. “I know. I have lived here for seventeen years. I don’t go around with my eyes closed September through November.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “They’re all going to want to eat your pony.”

Kiara scowls. “She’s fifteen hands. She’s a horse.”

“Still not a carnivore.”

“Still not obsessed with the sea, though. That’s an advantage.”

“She’s half as fast and three times as appetising. You don’t have an advantage.”

Kiara Carrera shrugs her shoulders, pushes a lock of hair that’s escaped her bandana from her face. “See you on the beach.”

She strides from The Wreck and JJ watches her go. The assured movements, the dirt crusted boots. The ratted and shapeless jeans that are probably a cast off from her brother; the sweatshirt that definitely is.

“Watch yourself,” Agatha warns in a quiet voice. “She knows what she’s about.”

JJ raps his knuckles against the bar counter. “I reckon my opening odds will be 3:1.”

“On the girl, or the race?” JJ slides her a look. The woman looks shrewdly back. “You look out for her, out there.”

“I have debts to pay, Aggie. The only thing I’m looking out for is the finish line.”

Agatha harumphs. Swipes a cloth across the polished wood. “Get outta here, Maybank.”

“With pleasure.”

*

There’s an inordinate amount of iron on the beach.

Girl and horse stand on the clifftop, the wind lifting locks of mane and hair. Minnow’s nostrils flare as she breaths in deeply, considering the scene before her. There are _capaill_ all up the beach. Men sitting on the backs of some – chains clanking as they try to steady others.

Men bury their feet in the sand and try to avoid being buried headfirst.

Some try their best at sprints down the beach. They start off as close to the cliff as they can manage – fisherman’s hands holding the reins of plunging, writhing, seething sea horses. Fighting to keep on board and balanced. Then they loosen the reins and their mounts surge, making a diagonal, snaking line across the beach as they fight to reach the sea.

Kiara watches one _capaill_ struggle free and plunge into the waves, kicking Topper Thornton in the knee as it goes. He staggers in the waves, then rights himself, wades out resignedly with one hand on his kneecap.

There are three in relative control – JJ Maybanks’ stallion Coel, John B’s all white mare Gekko, and Pope Heyward’s bay mare Edwina. The three sprint their mounts down the beach at a safe distance, hands fisted around reins. Iron clanks from the amulets on Gekko’s bridle; slaps against Edwina’s sides. Coel is unrestrained by the metal; is kept still and true by JJ’s knees and hands. He crouches low over the red stallion’s neck. Even still, the stallion does not run straight. He plunges and dives across the pebble dashed shore. Roars towards the sea.

Minnow shivers at every roar, at every keen. Kiara mutters _shhhh_ and presses a hand to her neck. The mare flicks an ear towards her in recognition.

It takes an hour for the beach to be emptier. There are still _capaill_ on the sands, but they’re fewer and further between. Kiara mutters lowly to Minnow as they step onto the sand. Her ears and gaze focus on the now smaller crowd which begin murmuring at their appearance. Kiara pays them no mind; presses her calves to Minnow’s side, urging the mare into a trot.

She carves out an empty space on the beach and begins circling widely, clucking her tongue reassuringly to Minnow. The horse keeps staring at the _capaill_ , every muscle a tense line. Gradually she lowers her head, but it shoots up every time one of the sea scented horses comes anywhere in the vicinity.

The sand closest to the sea is the emptiest, so Kiara lets the reins loose and digs her heels into the mare’s sides. She responds in an instant – leaps forwards from a steady canter to a gallop, neck extended, hooves drumming in the slick sand.

It’s halfway down the beach that Kiara reckons she can do this. The other _capaille_ are fighting in the sand. Are wrestling their riders and the call of the sea. Minnow is straight as an arrow; accurate and true and soaring – hooves and legs a blur, sweat on her neck. Nostrils flaring with each stride, dragging in air to fuel her desperate muscles.

The _capaille_ slams into them at the three-quarter mark.

Teeth slice Kiara’s leg and Minnow snorts in shock as she swerves into the sea. The surf steals their momentum, meaning Minnow has to hop and dive against the waves at her canon bones. The _capaille_ is in pursuit, then past the point of pursuit. Kiara thinks she sees a rider in the sea, tangled in the legs. The _capaille_ reaches down, teeth snapping in the foam. Something turns red and the _capaille_ is free – bridle over its ears, disappearing into the ocean. Kiara can see the sky, then the red tinged sea. The water is over her, around her, her feet scrabbling for purchase in the sand, but not too close to Minnow’s flailing legs.

Minnow’s thrashing, trying to straighten herself. Her ears are flat against her head, lost in the wet tangle of her mane. Kiara hooks an elbow over her withers and uses it to lever herself upwards, pants heavy and damp with seawater, salt burning her mouth and eyes. She gasps in air in relief, her lungs protesting at the sudden dunking.

JJ Maybank is pulling Kelce from the surf. Heyward has rushed across the sands to assist – pulls the boy by the elbows. Two other men follow, slowed by the stretcher between them.

Kiara reins Minnow wide, skirting the scene. There’s more blood now and she can see _capaille_ nostrils flaring and twitching – eyes honing in on the scene. JJ has to retreat to re-capture Coel’s reins and lead the stallion away. He passes Minnow, who flinches away from the sea horse.

“Stay off the beach,” he says as he passes, and she can’t tell whether it’s a warning or a command.

She rides Minnow past the crowd who are watching as a stretcher is carried towards them. Someone’s backed a Jeep down to meet them. Kiara keeps walking.

*

Rafe is listed to ride the all bay mare.

JJ hopes Ward can see why he advised against her.

JJ’s hands are split from holding Coel’s reins. He soaks them in seawater every evening and bandages them so he doesn’t get blood on the sheets.

October is the only relief his father gives him in the year. He flings bottles instead. Smashes crockery and windows; wrenches doors from their frames. But he doesn’t lay a hand on his son. Does not want to jeopardise his training. Does not want to risk the spoils.

The thoroughbred’s also wind down from their extensive training season during October. They still need cleaning out and grooming and exercising – but there’s more time for Coel. More time for the sea and going to town to see his name on the chalkboard and the ever-shortening odds for his success.

Kiara’s in there too. Agatha slides a pint of her homemade gooseberry cordial across to JJ and continues her conversation with the girl.

“-you can’t wear jeans for the races, Kiara-”

“Why not? They’re sturdy, dependable. All I’ve got, too.”

“Outfits are the least of you worries,” JJ interjects. He’s collecting pints for John B and Pope too. Passes the notes to Agatha, who takes them with a scowl.

“You need to look the part, if you want to be taken seriously,” she insists.

“If you wanted to be taken seriously you wouldn’t have entered the Races with a pony.”

Agatha and Kiara turn their scowls upon him. He almost flinches but sets his shoulders at the last moment. Collects the glasses in his hands.

“Horse,” Kiara corrects him.

“I might have something,” Agatha dismisses JJ, looks back at the girl in front of her. “Maybe. Something from when Jack-” there’s a pause at the name. Jack was one of the casualties of the Race, the year that JJ first won. “-when he raced. I’ll see if I can find it.”

Kiara’s sigh sounds like defeat.

Pope and John B look up as the glasses collide with the surface of the table, beer and cordial sloshing down the sides.

“Looks like Kiara’s serious about the Race,” John B comments idly, drawing a finger through the spilt liquid. “She’s not given up on the idea yet.”

“Seb keeps hoping she will,” Pope takes a sip of his drink. “He’s living on his nerves.”

“You live on your nerves,” JJ points out. He’s positioned himself so he can see the bar and the door – which coincidentally, gives him a view of Kiara as she leans across the counter, talking rapidly with Agatha.

They are both women of the Island – freckled noses and cheeks, dark hair. Hands that work bread and horses equally as easily. JJ once had one of her knitted, colourful blankets. It was blue with threads of yellow and green and purple. All the colours of the sea. He used to hold the softness to his cheek. Then it had gone one day and never reappeared, like most things in his life.

Theo Carrera clatters into The Wreck, all eleven-year-old enthusiasm. JJ watches as Kiara reacts to her brother’s presence. How her arm curves instinctively around his shoulder, they other mussing his coiled hair. The boy leans into her side.

Sometimes he wonders if a sibling would halve his misery or amplify it. Whether Luke would see it as a challenge; whether he’d have a fist for each. Or whether they’d grow and leave the Island; leave him. Just like the multicoloured blanket and his mother.

Pope’s looking at him curiously across the table. JJ shakes himself from where he’s staring, downs half a glass of cordial. Says, “yeah, I’m still gonna win though,” just to hear John B groan and Pope sigh.

Kiara laughs at something Theo says. The boy looks proud, his hands stilling as he gazes at his sister with adoration. Then Kiara swipes a hand over his shoulder, pushes gently at it. They chorus goodbyes to Agatha and traipse out the door. Peter Thornton comes through the door at the same time – he stands to one side to let them through. His hand’s on the door when he barks, “that damn girl is going to get everyone killed. Look what happened to that Kelce boy. She doesn’t belong there. It’s no place for a girl and a pony.”

The door’s half open when he says it, his voice booming to fill the room. JJ looks through the glass front of The Wreck. It’s enough to catch Kiara’s eye, her face twisted as though she were chewing on a bumble bee.

She mouths _horse_ whilst looking him straight in the face, and he snorts into his cordial.

*

Kiara stays off the beach.

She trains Minnow on the headland instead. Warms her up on the ride over – walking and trotting down the road, so her tendons and feet will harden and strengthen. Canters her in smooth, sweeping circles. It’s close enough that Minnow can hear the _capaill’s_ calls from the beach below. That she becomes used to the shouts of men, the clinking of iron.

It takes her a week to stop flinching. Kiara grits her teeth and persists. By the seventh day, she can sprint her along the headland, as close as she dares take her to the crumbling cliff edge. The mare focusses on her rider rather than the sea creatures below. They go twice a day, morning and evening. When the sea’s call is at it’s highest and the _capaille_ at their loudest.

On the eighth day, JJ Maybank is waiting astride Coel on the clifftop.

The red stallion shifts constantly. From foot to foot. He has one ear and eye pinned on the sea; the other varies between JJ and Minnow.

Minnow stops twenty foot away and refuses to move closer.

“She has to get used to them, or you’ll kill us all.”

Kiara knows he’s not wrong. The sun is rising behind him, making his blonde hair go translucent. He’s in a threadbare t-shirt despite it not being warm enough. Black work boots in mismatching stirrups. His face is in shadow but she thinks she knows what the expression will be: resignation, tinged with determination.

It takes half an hour to inch Minnow within ten foot of the _capaille._ Coel goes stock still as the mare gets closer. JJ looks relaxed, but Kiara can see his knees pressed into the stallion’s side; his hands fisted tightly on the reins.

“Do you trust him?” she asks, as Minnow snorts and digs her heels in resolutely.

“No,” JJ moves slowly, spitting on two fingers and pressing them into the stallion’s neck. Coel stops his shifting for a moment; nostril’s flared. “And you definitely shouldn’t.”

Kiara sighs, holds Minnow still with her hands and legs. It’s a difficult balance, winning back the mare’s trust. She has to push her enough, but not too much that her courage fails and she twists away of her own accord.

JJ urges Coel into a walk, then a trot. Kiara matches the pace on an adjacent trajectory. The two trot along; Coel, graceful, ethereal, red coat flashing; Minnow – nimble, stocky, sandy coat beginning to shed in preparation for winter.

On the ninth day, JJ and Coel are there once more. They ignore Minnow and Kiara – JJ urges the stallion into a gallop along the headland, mane and tail streaming, hands steady on the reins.

On the twelfth day, Minnow and Coel sprint side by side. They match each other for every stride, necks strained, every muscle taut.

John B and Pope are waiting at the end of their makeshift runway, without their _capaille_.

Pope says, “you need to train him on the beach, JJ,” whilst looking at Kiara.

John B says, “she’s probably still gonna freak out when you put her with more,” but it’s not unkindly, more just an observation of fact.

“The odds are against me for staying alive, so I can make my entry fee back just by staying on board,” Kiara feels exposed, outlining her plan. But Pope and John B and JJ are all looking at her expectantly. “I can use the sea without my horse swimming away, so that’s a useful addition.”

“You don’t wanna be in the sea on Race day,” JJ interjects firmly. He’s settled Coel a few yards away, out of the reach of humans and horses alike. The horses curved ears flit between them continuously. “Once they’re in the sea, they’re worse. Quicker.”

Three sets of eyes turn on her. Kiara swipes a lock of hair out of her face. “I’ll figure something out.”

Pope looks aggrieved at the thought of a half-formed plan. John B smiles but coughs to hide it. JJ just looks steadily at her.

Kiara walks Minnow back, reins loose in her hand. The mare tucks into her double rations of oats and hay with gusto, sucking her water bucket dry and scattering water in Kiara’s hair.

It’s grits and beans for dinner. They sit at the once grand dining room table that has been shunted into the kitchen, relegated to the position once the original kitchen table was chopped up for firewood. Seb glares at her from over the table. Theo chatters about his day, showing Seb his latest injury from his oyster knife. It sounds like he’s skipped school again. He’s supposed to go at least four days a week, but Kiara lets him off with three. It’s one of the many bones of contention between the elder siblings.

“John B says Minnow’s fast but nervous,” Seb cuts a bean in half unnecessarily. Kiara watches his fork as he divides it neatly into two. “Sounds like that’ll run you into trouble. Almost drowned the other day, I heard.”

Kiara hums non-committedly. Scoops some pulpy grits into her mouth. “Kildare rumours are dangerous things.”

Theo’s fallen silent, looking between his two siblings. “Please don’t die,” he bursts eventually. “Wheezie Cameron said that you probably will. Her dad says you’re stupid for entering the Race. That it’s not for girls.”

Kiara points her fork at him. “You don’t listen to Wheezie Cameron. And girls can do whatever boys can. Most of the time, they can do everything better.”

“Please don’t die.”

“I won’t die.”

“Promise?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Seb mutters. “The boy’s known enough death as it is.”

Kiara flushes and scowls. Glares at Seb. “He’s had enough people leave him without you adding to the list, but I don’t see that stopping you.” Brother and sister glare at each other, eyes narrowed. Kiara doesn’t look away as she says, “Theo, I won’t die. I swear it.”

Theo looks between the two, searching their faces for something. Seb is scowling, his hand fisted around his fork. Kiara tries to make her features as neutral as possible. Definitely misses the mark.

“Okay,” Theo agrees eventually. “Maybe you can try and win as well. The prize is massive.”

It breaks the tense. Even Seb half smiles. “It is huge,” he confirms. “No more oysters for at least a year.”

Theo looks delighted with the possibility. Launches into a long-winded explanation of today’s haul. Seb doesn’t comment on him missing school for the second day in a row, or the length and intense detail of the story. He just nods along, offers comments.

It makes Kiara’s heart constrict painfully, so she abandons her plate and marches upstairs to her parents’ room. Crawls under the covers and stares up at the ceiling.

She wakes up to Theo next to her, the covers pulled halfway up his face to the shell of his ear. His breathing is regular, easy, gusting against the sheets. His face is smooth of worry and fretting. Kiara presses a kiss to his temple, then pushes her feet into her boots and goes out to feed Minnow.

The mare’s cowering at the back of her stable, her coat matted with dried sweat. She flinches as Kiara unbolts the door, whispering softly to her. There are scrape marks around the door which look suspiciously like teeth – the wood is rough and splintered when Kiara touches it. The mare flinches at the soft touch to her neck. Flicks her tail in discontent.

Kiara speaks softly to her as she brushes the salt from her coat. It tinges the already briny air.

She’s pulling apart a metal basket the used to hold firewood when Seb emerges, squinting into the daylight and watching as his sister hammers flat the twisted spokes. Theo sits on the fence nearby, a chunk of mostly stale bread and over-salted butter in one hand.

“A _capall_ came by last night and spooked Minnow,” she explains, as Seb leans against the doorway. “I figured this was partly iron.”

He doesn’t say anything more. Watches her intently as she keeps working, lifting the sledge hammer over her head and bringing it down repeatedly onto the metal. Her hair sticks to the back of her neck with sweat as she punches holes through the flattened pieces. She lets Minnow out into the paddock and then hammers the metal all over the stable door and entrance. It’s a mismatch which she continually has to hammer flat so the mare won’t catch herself on a stray nail or edge.

It takes all morning and she keeps having to stop to drink out the garden tap. Theo keeps up a running commentary between the noise of the hammer. Minnow comes and bumps her muzzle against Kiara’s elbow, breathing into her skin.

Theo’s been quiet for a suspicious amount of time, so she looks around. Sees him standing in the yard watching her. JJ Maybank is at his side, a paper bag in one hand. Both boys are appraising her. Theo looks apologetic. JJ Maybank looks hungry.

She’s just in her singlet, a pair of Seb’s jeans and her work boots. Her hair’s a tangled mess of salt and sweat, a faded bandana around her forehead.

Embarrassment long since passed over the Carrera’s, so instead she says, “is that bread?”

JJ holds up the brown bag. “Agatha sent it.” His eyes are flicking over her, then away. “You weren’t at the beach.”

“Fuckin’ _capaille_ ,” she complains. Rests the hammer against her thigh and blows cool air towards her forehead. “Had one around here last night.”

“Swear,” Theo chides. “That means I get one.”

Kiara glances to the sky briefly. “Fine. Use it wisely.” JJ Maybank’s unbolted the gate and is in the paddock. Is running a critical eye and then a critical hand over her handiwork.

“Are you sure this is iron?” he asks.

“Nope. Funnily enough, I struggle to tell the composition of metal just by looking at it.”

He looks at her again. “Only iron works.”

Kiara looks to the sky once more. Counts three. Counts five. “It’s all we’ve got,” she says eventually.

JJ hums, straightens up. “Some tea sounds good.”

“You’re lucky you brought bread.”

He coats his bread with half an inch of thick butter. Drinks his tea black and almost straight out of the pot. Kiara lets her steep until it’s verging on bitter. Theo flutters around, overwhelmed at having a visitor in their house.

There is a stack of half-finished blankets near the stove where she’d dragged them to work on whilst she was tasked to oversee dinner. Pans from last night’s dinner soak in the sink, the water cold and scummy. A stack of mud-covered horseshoes sit by the back door, ready to be cleaned and painted for the tourists. The door to the pantry is ajar, belying it’s emptiness.

Theo ducks upstairs to get his fossil collection to show JJ. A floorboard creaks as he jumps off his bed. Kiara yells, “no jumping!” then, “sorry, we don’t get many visitors.”

“It’s okay,” JJ shrugs. “He seems like fun.”

“A pain in the ass more like,” Kiara complains, wiping her bread crust around the jar of marmalade for the last remnants. “Seb’s not here, by the way. You missed him by about ten minutes.”

“I’m not here for Seb.” The words almost get drowned out by Theo’s reappearance, a bucket full of stones and pebbles and rocks in one hand. Almost, but not quite. Kiara looks at him sharply. He’s helping Theo lay out the relic’s fossil-side up, but glances up at her gaze. Meets it straight on.

Kiara can feel herself flushing, so throws herself into the chair next to the stove and takes up her needles. They clack soothingly together as she works, unravelling the yarn painfully slowly. JJ bends over the table with Theo, pointing out fish and other creatures in the imprints. Finally, he glances at the cracked grandfather clock, stands up almost reluctantly.

“I have to go and do afternoon exercise.” He seems reticent or something, his hands tucked into his dark work trousers. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Your pony can do with getting straight back into training, else she’ll lose her nerve.”

“Horse,” she corrects. “And she never had much nerve to start with.”

JJ’s lips quirk at the corner. He pats a hand briefly to Theo’s shoulder, then pulls on his jacket from where it’s been shrugged off.

Kiara follows him to the door, feeling like she should. He stands on the threshold, squinting into the light drizzle. Takes a breath before he steps out.

“Goodbye,” she says to be polite. “Thank you for the bread.”

“It was Agatha,” he reminds her. “She likes you, for some reason.”

“Orphan charm,” Kiara decides firmly. “It goes a long way.”

*

The drizzle is the kind that soaks you through to the skin without you noticing. Minnow whickers mournfully from the gate, her mane plastered to her neck. JJ glances over his shoulder at her. The Island horse stares right back, coat darkened by the rain.

“The odds for you dying are at 4:1,” he tells her. His hair is flattened to his skull, his collar upturned in a vain attempt to keep the rain off. He can feel the drips down the back of his neck.

He doesn’t want this day to end. Doesn’t want to leave Kiara Carrera wrapped in the too-big woollen cardigan, the sight of her biceps and sweat sheened forehead and nape still fresh in his memory. He can see her little toe through a hole in her socks. It shouldn’t be endearing.

“Do you agree?” her voice is quiet but steady.

“Aggie’s spitting in anyone’s drink who bets against you, so I doubt they’ll stay that way.” He doesn’t tell her he’s put money on her survival. That Agatha looked knowingly at him as he placed a week’s worth of wages down on the counter. The slip is in his pocket. He cups a hand over the paper to protect it from the rain.

Kiara laughs suddenly, her face morphing with the mirth. “God bless Agatha.”

“Sure. God bless Agatha.”

He steps backwards, further into the rain. It’s late and dark enough that he has to use the headlights on the borrowed Jeep, the Tannyhill advertising splashed audaciously over the doors. Water floods through a gap in the lining of his boot to his foot, soaking his sock. He has to squint through the windscreen, the wipers on maximum power.

The _capaill_ are unsettled. Stand at the back or sides of their stalls. He sweeps their stalls out quickly, keeping a wary eye on the newcomers. Coel swings his head from the vent at the back, eyes tracking his movements. He replenishes their troughs with fresh blood and meat; refreshes their sea water buckets.

Luke’s waiting when he gets home. JJ stamps his boots on the mat to get rid of the majority of the rainwater. The water patters familiarly on the corrugated roof of the shack he’s always called home. There’s the faint _tink_ as water drips into a faucet in the back corner of the kitchen.

“Ward says he’s already given you your wages,” Luke begins. “I suspect you have good reason.”

It’s unlikely that betting on the girl would constitute a good enough reason to deprive his father of money, but JJ hedges on appealing to his love for the Race. Luke Maybank stays on the Island for one thing and one thing only; the _capaill_ and the Scorpio Race.

“Betting’s opened up,” JJ explains neutrally. “I would say I’ll make double, if not triple.”

“Slip,” he holds out a hand. JJ hesitates, which is enough for an edge to enter his father’s eyes. Luke says simply, “JJ. The slip.”

It’s an odd sensation to feel so indebted to a human being. There’s a certain sense of disassociation as he pulls the damp slip carefully from his pockets. He can see the smudged name of _Kiara Carrera_ on the slip. The odds and the amount he’d placed into the pool.

Luke Maybank frowns as he reads the slip.

“The girl?” he says quietly. “You bet a week’s wage on the girl?”

There’s nothing to do but stare. He still tries. “It’s easy money.”

“The Race is no place for a girl. She has no right – you have no right. What, are we going to eat the slip all week? She’s riding a fucking pony, for Christ’s sake. Against the _capaill._ What were you thinking? Is this a joke? You better hope this is a joke, boy.”

His hand fists in JJ’s damp jacket, pulling him to him. JJ stares at the spot directly above his father’s head. He knows this script. He also hopes that because it’s October, his dad will let him off.

JJ underestimates the powerful effects of Agatha’s homebrewed moonshine. The blows to his face are a rare surprise, and always unwelcome. The split lip means he won’t be able to venture near the _capaille_ without risk for a day or two. The bruised ribs mean he won’t be able to ride without wincing and curling in on himself. The head wound is the worst. It won’t stop bleeding, even with a towel pressed hard to it.

His head spins. He sits with his back to the bathroom door and thinks of Coel, the sea, the Race, and Kiara fucking Carrera.


End file.
